


Notes Too Low to Play

by WithThisShield



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Dirty Talk, Fuck Or Die, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, Intercrural Sex, Large Cock, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misunderstandings, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Requited Love, Rimming, Scenting, Sex Pollen, Voice Kink, no beta we die like renfri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23560972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithThisShield/pseuds/WithThisShield
Summary: “Jaskier,” Geralt says with thinly veiled exasperation. “Tell me you did not inhale it.”“I didn’t inhale it…?” Jaskier laughs nervously.Geralt sighs. “For a bard, you are remarkably unskilled at lying.”He can smell the pheromone shift already, as the spores take effect inside Jaskier’s body. The scent clouds his thoughts, and he struggles to focus on anything except… well. Gods-damn, it’s going to be a long night.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 432
Kudos: 2566





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because I am trash, here's an outlet for my Witcher feels. This is based largely on the character dynamics from TV show, with some details taken from the games (haven't read the books).

Geralt stalks a slow circle around the fieldstone carriage house, listening, nostrils flared. “Wait outside,” he says, and unsheathes his silver sword.

“Right,” Jaskier agrees, much too readily.

“I mean it, Jaskier.”

“Sure, sure.”

Geralt pins the bard with a flat stare before shifting his attention back to the target. Half a mile from the main estate of the noble who hired him, the carriage house is long abandoned, a section of one wall partially crumbled—probably how the archespore gets enough sunlight to grow inside a gods-damned building. Enclosed spaces and cursed plants are not Gerald’s favorite combination.

He hauls back on one side of the wooden double doors, rusted hinges screeching, opening it just wide enough to slip through. As soon as he’s inside, even before his eyes adjust to the gloom, Geralt yanks the door closed behind him as a barrier against Jaskier’s faulty sense of self-preservation. He can hear the bard squawk indignantly through the wood, and it makes his lips twitch with the barest hint of amusement.

A shaft of sunlight cuts through the air, catching on motes of dust. Geralt smells the dry-rot slowly decaying the wooden rafters above, and beneath that, a hint of putrescent bog stench that really oughtn’t be found outside a swamp.

He shifts forward—one step, two steps—and the plant-monster rears up out of its hole, the angry flower-head swiveling to track his motions with blind malice. The color patterning indicates it is no common archespore, but instead a much more dangerous coccacidium, and Geralt swears under his breath. If he were capable of fear, he might feel it now, though his heartbeat stays steady as a drum in his chest. He feels a little irritated, and that’s all.

Tendrils whip through the air, and his silver sword flashes with each parry and swing. A poisonous thorn lodges in his arm above his bracer, but in the closed confines of the carriage house, there’s no way to retreat out of range, so the antidote will have to wait until the fight is over. His vision blurs and nausea roils in his gut as the poison drains his vitality.

A slight swelling below the flower head is all the warning he gets—Geralt draws a deep breath and holds it, and half a second later, the plant spews a defensive cloud of yellow spores into the air. He must end this fast, now, before the itch for a fresh breath turns into burning need. Swinging from his shoulder with all his might, Geralt slices through the stalk and decapitates the coccacidium. In the wake of the final blow, it collapses into a gooey heap of formerly-cursed vegetation.

Geralt hears a _cough_.

He looks up from the plant corpse. Jaskier is silhouetted against the sunlight, having climbed up into the gap where the wall’s collapsed. Geralt has a sudden premonition about his own death: he’s going to be hanged for bard-slaughter.

“Technically,” Jaskier points out, “I haven’t taken a single step inside.”

Geralt hopes there’s enough light for Jaskier to see his thunderous glower. He flicks plant juices off his blade and strides toward the gap with _intent_. The bard’s eyes go wide and he scrambles down, half-falling into the grass outside. Geralt vaults through the opening, and without missing a step, grabs ahold of Jaskier’s upper arm and drags him farther from the carriage house. Only then does he allow himself to exhale and refresh the air in his lungs.

“Now there’s no need to be cross…”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says with thinly veiled exasperation. “Tell me you did not inhale it.”

“I didn’t inhale it…?” Jaskier laughs nervously.

Geralt sighs. “For a bard, you are remarkably unskilled at lying.”

He can smell the pheromone shift already, as the spores take effect inside Jaskier’s body. The scent clouds his thoughts, and he struggles to focus on anything except… well. Gods-damn, it’s going to be a long night.

“I’m not poisoned, am I?” Jaskier says, with a note of only mild concern. “I feel fine, really.”

“Depends on your definition of ‘poisoned’.”

“ _What_.” He goes still for all of two seconds before tossing his hands in the air. “Why would you say such a thing?! That is not at all comforting, Geralt!”

Geralt twitches an eyebrow at him. “It wasn’t meant to be a comfort. Coccacidium spores cause an unnatural state of arousal. We have an extremely uncomfortable night ahead of us, but you should live.”

“ _Should?!_ ” the bard screeched, his voice jumping whole octaves.

Fear scents the air, noticeable even through the dizzying haze of Jaskier’s spore-induced pheromones. Something tightens in Geralt’s chest; as much as he might prefer the bard to develop a healthy respect for his own mortality, he derives no joy from Jaskier’s panic.

“I will not allow you to die of this,” he says gruffly.

“Die? _Of arousal?_ That’s a possibility?”

“No. Of course not. It’s the fever that would kill you.”

Jaskier lets out a bark of hysterical laughter. “I always said I wanted to die with a smile on my face, but not at the tender age of twenty-six!”

Geralt frowns. “You’re not twenty-six.”

“I will _always_ be twenty-six. Bards as charming and talented as myself should never suffer the unfortunate side of thirty. It simply isn’t _right,_ Geralt.”

Shaking his head in bemusement, he stalks back across the field to where they’d left Roach (and Jaskier’s pathetic excuse for a horse). Jaskier follows at his heels, watching as Geralt fishes around in the saddlebags for the right potion.

“That’s the antidote?”

“It’s _an_ antidote.” Geralt downs the sour liquid and yanks the thorn out of his arm, and the effects of the poison start to recede. “There is no quick cure for what you breathed in. Your body will have to purge the toxin naturally.”

“P—purge?” Sweat is starting to dampen the dark hair at Jaskier’s temples.

Geralt’s gaze flicks down his body, noting the bulge that is in no way hidden by the bard’s unreasonably fitted trousers. “Ejaculate, mostly.”

Jaskier moans and bends over, hands on knees, trying to relieve his discomfort.

“It would be best to take you to a brothel, be it seems we haven’t the time.” The nearest town is two hour’s ride to the east, and the spores’ influence has already progressed past the point where Geralt would be able to convince Jaskier to stay on the horse. Instead, Geralt takes their packs from the saddles and goes about setting up camp in the shelter of a copse of trees beside the creek where they watered the horses earlier.

He sets up their tent with brutal efficiency, keeping his hands busy so his mind won’t stray. For a human, Jaskier’s altered pheromones would be simply attractive… but Geralt is not human, and his heightened senses are _full_ of Jaskier, a haze as thick as morning mist. He feels almost drunk on secondhand desire. But he will have to stay strong, he will not violate Jaskier’s trust. No matter what that damned scent stirs in him.

Jaskier flops down on a fallen log that Geralt was intending to use as firewood, but is apparently now a designated bard seat. Those deft musician’s fingers loosen the laces on his doublet; he’s breathing too fast, sweating in earnest now.

“Oooh, Geralt. Please tell me you were joking about there not being an antidote. I’ll listen next time, _I swear_ , just please make this stop, my skin feels like it’s on _fire_.”

Geralt hands him a water skin. “Drink. It will be worse if you get dehydrated.”

With a worrisome lack of protest at Geralt snapping orders, he takes the water skin and drinks deep. Then Jaskier grinds the heel of his palm over the erection trapped in his trousers. This goes on for a solid minute before he realizes what he’s doing and stops, shooting Geralt a mortified look. “Oh gods, I can’t control myself.”

“That’s to be expected.” Something inside him softens at the bard’s obvious distress. “You have nothing to fear. I will never take advantage of you, my friend.”

Jaskier whimpers and turns his face away, muttering under his breath, “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier _burns._ The linen shirt under his doublet sticks to his skin, drenched in sweat. His cock throbs in the confines of his trousers, and the need to touch it is like an unscratched itch—impossible to ignore, driving him mad. Jaskier feels wildly out of control, and not in a fun, normal, _I tried to match a witcher drink-for-drink and now the whole village is spinning_ kind of way. Jaskier invests literally all of his self-control into one specific arena—resisting the urge to jump Geralt—and now that singular mission is under assault.

This is bad. This is very, very bad and it needs to _stop_ before Jaskier ruins a decade-long friendship by finally begging Geralt to fuck him.

Jaskier tucks his hands under his arms to stop them from wandering southward and rocks back and forth, trying to distract himself from the still-worsening lust. “If you have any brilliant ideas for how to get me out of this one, now would be a fantastic time to share.”

“Hrm,” his friend replies eloquently.

Geralt stands over him, hands on hips, implacable golden-eyed stare seeming to dissect him down to the bone. And frankly, the weight of the witcher’s gaze is very much _not_ helping to calm the situation in Jaskier’s pants.

“I’m not supposed to die tragically young, Geralt! I’m supposed to compose ballads about _other people_ dying tragically young—I can’t do that if I’m dead!”

Geralt huffs. “I told you, you’re not going to die. I won’t allow it.”

“Well my body seems to have missed the announcement you nailed to the notice board, because my dick is _definitely trying to kill me_.”

“Don’t fight the urge,” Geralt orders in that delicious, low, gravelly voice of his. “Touch yourself.”

Jaskier scrambles to obey (because honestly, if he were stone-cold sober and Geralt growled _touch yourself_ he’d still obey without hesitation). He loosens his trouser laces enough to get a hand around his swollen prick, and he can’t help the obscenely loud moan that escapes his lips. In his state of frantic delirium, he _almost_ asks Geralt for further instructions—he’s pretty sure the witcher could make him come with just _that voice_ , and oooh does Jaskier want to test the theory.

But Geralt averts his gaze, as if the sight of Jaskier pleasuring himself makes the witcher uncomfortable. Jaskier is already so flushed with arousal that he can’t really say he feels a _flush_ of shame, but the shame stings in his chest nonetheless. Humiliation does nothing to weaken his arousal, and he can’t bring himself to stop pumping his hand up and down his shaft. It’s barely enough contact to take the edge off his lust, allowing his mind to clear a bit so he can think.

And what he thinks is: _I am so screwed_.

The foundation of any functional relationship is knowing which parts of yourself the other person cannot tolerate, and keeping those parts hidden to the best of your ability. For example, the day a naïve young man called Julian said, _I’ve enrolled in the bards’ college at the University of Oxenfurt_ , and his mother said, _you’re no son of mine_. Jaskier took that lesson to heart.

Sure, Geralt will snarl and snap at him when he’s talking too much, or strumming the same chord progression over and over, or accidentally breathing a faceful of monster spores through very little fault (okay, _moderate_ fault) of his own. But Geralt’s irritation is just part of their dynamic, their repartee. The part of Jaskier that absolutely must remain hidden is something else entirely: his all-consuming obsession with Geralt.

There’s no way Geralt isn’t aware of it by now. Jaskier has been following him around like a puppy on and off for a decade, writing endless songs about his might and valor. If that doesn’t scream, _I’m hopelessly infatuated with you_ , then really what would? But—and here’s the critical factor—neither of them ever acknowledges it. Their friendship is solid and enduring because Jaskier _keeps his damn mouth shut_ about the one thing that matters most to him.

The witcher and his bard, in an epic companionship capable of weathering any storm… except this one.

He’s so _hot_ , he desperately wants to take his doublet off, but he can’t stop touching himself long enough to do it. A bead of sweat drips off his nose, and his own breathing sounds loud in his ear.

“Is this…” Jaskier pants, “supposed to be helping? Because… I don’t really feel better…”

Geralt makes a frustrated growling noise in his throat, and the sound shoots straight down his spine to his prick—how is it even _possible_ for him to get any harder?

“We should move you to the tent.”

“Great, awesome,” Jaskier agrees. “Always lovely to have a plan of action. Uh, one problem, though—I’m afraid I might _spontaneously combust_ if I stop wanking.”

“Hrm.”

“Geraaalt,” he whines. “GeraltGeraltGeralt, _please_.”

Jaskier clamps his jaw shut before he can elaborate on exactly what he’s begging for. Nonspecific professional assistance with a monster toxin situation, of course. Certainly not anything to do with Geralt’s mouth, or those acres of well-defined muscles, or that fucking glorious witcher cock that he’s never seen hard, but by the gods if Geralt is hung like a stallion when he’s just bathing, Jaskier can only imagine how…

Jaskier moans, and his hips jerk as he thrusts into his own fist. He is somehow both more turned on than he’s ever been _in his life_ and nowhere near sweet release.

With a sigh, Geralt steps closer and crouches in front of him. To Jaskier’s ordinary human nose, the witcher just smells like leather and sweat, but it’s still intoxicating for him to be close enough to smell at all. Jaskier has to fight down a sudden, embarrassing impulse to lean forward and lick Geralt’s neck. Oh, how he yearns for it to be Geralt’s sword-calloused palm gripping his prick instead of his own hand. He swallows the words before his traitorous mouth can beg for such a thing.

Geralt’s face is… too close, not close enough, yellow eyes as intense as staring into the sun. Geralt is the whole world, and Jaskier sways toward him as if the witcher emits his own gravity.

“Good thing it wasn’t Baron Dimwit who got a face full of sex spores, amirite?” Jaskier babbles. He long ago figured out that letting his tongue run on literally any other topic was a great way to stop himself from accidentally giving voice to heartfelt confessions. “Can you imagine that pompous oaf wanking in a field? And it’s hard to get paid for completing a contract if the client’s brain gets fried. Is my brain frying?”

“It won’t come to that,” Geralt firmly insists.

Jaskier notices the witcher is breathing shallowly through his mouth, as if he were a particularly foul-smelling drowner. The scent of Jaskier’s arousal must repulse him. Guilt swamps Jaskier in a heavy wave at the thought of how his recklessness forced them both into this ridiculous situation.

“I’m sorry,” he says dejectedly. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re doing fine. You just need to come, and then you’ll start feeling better.”

He chokes on a broken sob. He’d trade his _lute_ to be able to come right now, but short of Geralt taking him in hand… or in his _mouth_ , or… well it’s not as if Geralt has ever specified that he _doesn’t_ fuck men… stop, stop it. That’s what the monster-plant drug wants, but _Jaskier_ wants to still have a best friend tomorrow. He groans, aching with need.

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice is gruff, almost impatient, cutting through the mental haze. “Take off your clothes.”

Jaskier blinks. Oh. Oooh, _yesyesyes,_ that is an order he will happily follow.


	3. Chapter 3

To Geralt’s consternation, the bard _immediately_ pulls both his doublet and shirt over his head and squirms out of them in an awkward, frantic wriggle. The front of his trousers hangs open and Geralt can’t help but get an eyeful.

“Not _here_ , in the tent,” Geralt growls, a tiny spark of panic hitting him as the sudden disrobing fills the air with intoxicating pheromones. For a second, he thinks about keeping Jaskier’s arms trapped in his clothes while he shoves him face-down in the dirt and…

Geralt shakes his head like he’s taken a blow to the temple. He does _not_ find Jaskier’s eager ineptitude in any way endearing and he never has—no matter how the bard stumbles around like a newborn colt, all bright smiles and wide, trusting eyes. No. The White Wolf cannot be _endeared_.

“Oh. Sorry,” Jaskier says contritely. His hand dives back into his trousers to palm his erection as he hurries awkwardly over to the tent.

The bard is so sweet and ridiculous, and Geralt wants to put bite marks all over the blank canvas of his pale, perfect skin. He growls in frustration.

“Will you… come talk to me?” Jaskier asks hesitantly from within the tent. “Please?”

Geralt huffs and rolls his eyes. It is a terrible idea to get any closer, but if he has learned anything in the past decade, it’s the singular ineffectiveness of saying “no” to Jaskier. He sits down right outside the tent flap, facing away as proof against the urge to peer inside.

“I am here,” he grumbles.

“I know it isn’t exactly your speciality,” Jaskier babbles, “but would it be a terrible inconvenience for you to keep talking? More than three words at a time would be delightful.”

Geralt pretends he can’t hear the bard spitting into his own palm, following by the rhythmic rub of skin again skin. “What would you have me speak of?” ( _There, that was seven words_ , Geralt doesn’t add.)

“You must have some… uh, exploits you could describe for me…? Not that I’m judging, but all those whores, Geralt! At least one of them must have left an impression. Paint me a picture.”

“You want me to talk about sex,” he says flatly, disbelieving. How is he supposed to focus on the memory of fucking some random prostitute when Jaskier is _right there_ behind him, all hard and flushed and wanton?

“The magical sex spore toxin is acting a little uncooperative here, so yes, I apologize for the forwardness of the request, but if you could pretend just for today to be a normal guy who brags about his conquests, that would be really fucking brilliant!” Jaskier says, his tone rising an octave with intensifying desperation.

“Hrm,” Geralt replies.

“Noncommittal grunts do not count as an answer!”

“Fine! Fine, I’m thinking,” he bites out. “There was a man I met once in a tavern. Gorgeous, a terrible flirt. I was fresh off a hunt and my blood was still up, so I bent him over the table and fucked him right there, in the dark corner of the tavern.”

“You’re making that up,” Jaskier pants from inside the tent. “But I’m a generous listener so I’ll allow it. Go on.”

He _is_ making it up—sort of. It’s what he wanted to do to Jaskier the first time they met. “When we’re done, I send him to the bar to fetch us ale, and some mouth-breathing swineherd gets it into his head to lay hands on my b— my man.”

Jaskier interjects, “Oh, this’ll be good—don’t tell me your man flirts with the _swineherd!_ ”

“Who is telling the story here?” Geralt snaps. He’s trying to ignore how his cock aches inside his trousers, and the effort makes him irritable.

“Sorry. Do go on.”

“He _does not_ flirt with the swineherd,” Geralt growls. In no fantasy of his does Jaskier fawn after other men. “But the swineherd is aggressively persistent, so I have little choice but to get in his face and pull his hand away and squeeze until—”

Geralt cuts himself off—that detail is too specific. On at least three occasions that he can recall, he actually _did_ lose his temper and break the wrist of a tavern patron who groped Jaskier. (He’s always careful to restrain the urge if Jasker seems to be enjoying the attention, but the moment the bard says _no_ , anyone who touches against his wishes becomes fair game for moderate bodily harm, in Geralt’s estimation.)

“Anyway. One swineherd taken care of, but someone else is sure to notice how lovely the man is. So then I have to take him again, pinned against the bar in full view, where everyone can see me staking my claim.”

Jaskier’s breathing is becoming steadily more rapid. “Say it’s me,” he begs, and Geralt freezes, thinking that the bard has figured him out. But then Jaskier elaborates, “Tell me what you’d do to _me_ in the tavern, please!”

“ _You_ , little bard,” Geralt growls. “I’d sit you in my lap and make you sing with your arse stuffed full of my cock. Would you like that, if I fucked you in front of a full house while you tried to concentrate on performing?”

Jaskier keens and cries out, and the tent canvas does little to mask the intoxicating scent of his come. Geralt clenches his teeth and tries to focus on something else, afraid the bard’s pleasure will push him over the edge untouched. He briefly slips into a light meditation to even out his breathing and force his body back under control.

After a minute of silence, Jaskier giggles. “Well it would certainly set tongues wagging.”

Geralt blinks. It takes him a moment to understand the bard is referring to Geralt’s exhibitionist fantasy. “Hrm.”

“You a’right?” Jaskier sounds both dazed and worried, as if he’s struggling to concentrate enough to ask the question.

“I am fine,” Geralt grunts. He carefully avoids the kind of introspection that might evaluate whether this statement is a lie.

“I see how women look at you, Geralt.” His words slur together like they do when drunk. “Like they want to be ravage—radish…?— _ravished_ by a wild beast.” He blows on his tongue, making an impolite noise of dismissal.

Geralt frowns. The bard’s mind should be more lucid now, for a little while at least; it seems odd that a professional poet would be stumbling over his words. Deciding to check on him, Geralt twitches the tent flap back and glances over his shoulder. Jaskier is coated in a sheen of sweat, the color high in his cheeks, his eyes half-lidded and glassy. Thick threads of pearlescent come paint his stomach, but his erection isn’t flagging. He looks like a wet dream; he also does not look at all well.

Seeing Geralt, Jaskier squirms up onto hands and knees and tosses himself against Geralt’s back, arms wrapping over his shoulders. “But you’re not… not an animal, you’re my witcher,” he slurs, nuzzling into Geralt’s hair.

The words are like claws under the edges of his armor, cutting into flesh, because Jaskier is _wrong_. Geralt is not human—he is a creature built of violent instinct, and his muscles are so tense he’s shuddering with the effort of controlling himself. He is animal enough to consider throwing away his truest friendship for an hour of sexual gratification; he wants to take advantage of someone he cares for, and what word is there for such a thing, if not _beast_?

Jaskier’s hips roll, humping against Geralt’s lower back and probably smearing spunk all over his armor (which he is distantly aware he’ll be annoyed about later). He wants to fuck Jaskier so hard he _screams_ , test that much-lauded vocal range with his cock _._ The scent of Jaskier’s magical arousal makes him dizzy with want.

“Isss why you use brothels…? Can pay em to treat ya like a person?” Jaskier’s voice is oddly gentle and concerned, despite his feverish disorientation. His arms hang loose and uncoordinated around Geralt’s neck, hot as a brand where skin touches skin.

A seed of worry takes root in Geralt’s gut. “Jaskier, did that not help to clear your mind?”

“Mm… is ver nice,” Jaskier mumbles, almost unintelligible now. “Nee mooore…”

Geralt’s frown deepens to a scowl. “The orgasm should have leveled you out.”

No reply—not a word from a man who is constitutionally incapable of shutting up. Geralt puts a hand to the bard’s forehead; Jaskier’s face is so hot it makes him recoil with a sudden shock of (quite unfamiliar) terror. The fever’s getting worse instead of better, and if he doesn’t do something, this might actually _kill_ Jaskier.

“Jaskier, can you hear me? Jaskier! We must get your fever down.”

He turns and gathers the bard into his arms.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments and kudos!

If Jaskier were not already swooning with fevered delirium, he’d _definitely_ swoon the moment Geralt sweeps him up into a bridal carry. He’s not actually a small man—only an inch or two shorter than Geralt, if admittedly much slimmer—and being picked up like a delicate maiden gives him a strange fluttery feeling in his stomach. His head lolls against the witcher’s leather pauldron, and he exhales a small, wordless whine. Geralt is so strong, and manly, and would it be weird to write a song just about his jawline?

Geralt says something, but Jaskier can’t quite catch the words; there’s a ringing in his ears that’s most distracting. He hopes he’s being carried to bed, because it just doesn’t seem _fair_ that Geralt isn’t kissing him right now, and beds are a good place for kissing. He reaches up and runs his fingertips over Geralt’s lips, but the witcher just shakes him off like Roach dislodging a horsefly. The rejection settles painfully over his heart.

Geralt’s steps slow, and Jaskier tries to pay attention to their surroundings. This is not a bedroom at all—there are moss-covered rocks and the burble of moving water. Geralt crouches and lowers Jaskier, and suddenly _everything_ is cold and wet; the creek water hits him like _ice_ on his skin, and he squeals at the sudden shock of it. His balls tighten like they want to crawl up and hide, but despite how exceptionally unpleasant the cold is around his cock, his erection remains unabated.

“Wh—wha the f—fuck…!” he manages to push out through clenched teeth.

A twitch of amusement curls the corner of Geralt’s mouth. “There you are.”

“C—could’ve warned me.”

The witcher rolls his eyes.

The creek is just barely deep enough to submerge in; Geralt’s hand feels hot against the back of his neck, making certain his face stays above the surface. As Jaskier adjusts, the cool water starts to feel _blissfully_ good—it’s not actually so cold as he thought at first, his feverish skin lying to him. He relaxes into it, the haze of delirium gradually lifting from his mind; unfortunately, this just gives him space to remember the throbbing ache in his cock. And Geralt is _right there_ —crouched in the water beside him, looming over him, white hair hanging about his shoulders…

Jaskier has an itching suspicion that there’s a reason he’s not supposed to kiss Geralt, but for the life of him, he can’t remember what it is. He squirms, trying to sit up, intent on making a play for Geralt’s mouth, but the witcher presses his other hand to Jaskier’s chest and firmly guides him back into the water.

“Stay down.”

Geralt’s palm splayed across his naked chest feels delightful, but he can think of an _even more_ delightful place that Geralt could touch. He rests his own hand atop Geralt’s and slowly slides it off his chest and down his stomach.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” he warns.

Jaskier pinches his lower lip between his teeth and gives Geralt his best puppied-eyed look of pleading. Geralt snorts angrily but doesn’t pull his hand away as Jaskier guides it down, down, and finally rests it on his cock. The touch sends a wave of pleasure radiating through him, oooh _fuck_ he’s wanted this for _eons._ He rolls his hips and rubs his cock against Geralt’s calloused palm, and he can almost pretend the witcher is jerking him off enthusiastically instead of turning his face away with a constipated look, eyes squeezed shut and jaw locked.

Jaskier should stop. He should definitely stop, and he’s going to any second now, because Geralt is obviously uncomfortable and unwilling and that still matters, it _does_ , but… Jaskier needs the touch the way he needs oxygen. Might as easily decide to stop breathing.

“I can’t— oh, gods… _Geralt!_ ”

Geralt makes a rumbling noise in his throat. “I know. Come here.”

When the hand is cruelly stolen from his cock, Jaskier lets out a broken whimper of protest, but then the witcher’s hands are on his shoulders, guiding him up. Geralt helps Jaskier out of the water and sits them both on a flat, moss-covered rock, side by side. He pulls Jaskier tight against him, so he can lean back against Geralt’s hip and shoulder, Geralt’s arm coming to rest around his waist. The physical contact soothes him like a balm, though honestly _why_ is the witcher still in his armor when he ought to be naked? Bare skin would be so much more pleasant against Jaskier’s back.

“It hurts,” Jaskier complains, referring to his achingly hard dick. “I’m so _hot_ and my skin feels all tingly now, and what is happening, Geralt?” He can’t quite recall past the fog in his mind.

“I am sorry for this my friend,” says the witcher, his voice rough, “but it seems touching yourself is insufficient. This must be done.”

Jaskier doesn’t have long the ponder the pained note in his tone, though, because Geralt’s hand closes around his cock and strokes. His whole body lights up with ecstasy and he writhes in Geralt’s arms, a helpless moan escaping his lips.

The witcher’s low voice hums like a bass string beside his ear. “Shall I play you like a lute, little bard? Test how high that lovely falsetto goes when I make you scream?”

“I thought my voice was a pie with no filling,” Jaskier pants.

“I lied.” His hand pauses on Jaskier’s cock. He thumbs over the slit almost speculatively, smearing precome over his sensitive head, and Jaskier’s hips jerk reflexively at the intense sensation. “I try not to listen to you performing, because I get chills when you sing my name.”

“Oh… Geralt!” he cries, his voice leaping up an octave.

“Yes, like that,” the witcher growls in his ear as he fists Jaskier’s shaft again.

“Ooooh, please fuck me, Geralt! If you fuck me I’ll write a ballad about being stuffed full of your glorious cock,” Jaskier babbles, “and then I can sing it while I’m riding you in the tavern…”

“Hrm,” Geralt replies, which is not _at all_ the answer Jaskier is hoping for; the answer he’s hoping for involves a lot more shedding of witcher armor and rigorous ploughing of one particular bard’s arse.

But Geralt’s hand is pumping and twisting with _purpose_ up and down his shaft, and the witcher’s teeth graze the sensitive skin of his neck below his ear. Jaskier feels a tightening in his balls as he fucks frantically into Geralt’s fist. It’s hard to hold onto disappointment when everything feels so delicious.

“Are you going to be a good boy for me?” Geralt growls.

Jaskier is _losing his mind_. “Yes, yes!”

“Come for me, little bard.”

He wails and bucks in Geralt’s arms as the pleasure bursts through him, thick white threads pulsing out as Geralt works his cock. When it’s over, Jaskier leans against Geralt, gasping for breath, utterly wrecked… and his thoughts begin to clear.

Oh, shit. Shit shit shit fuck, this is not good, none of this good. Geralt has never in _ten years_ so much as responded to a little light flirting, and now all of a sudden there’s dirty talk and hand jobs? Something’s wrong, something is very very wrong, and Jaskier can already feel the cloud of desire creeping up on him, lapping at the edges of his mind—he has only a matter of minutes to figure out what’s going on before rational thought flees him again.

“Geralt.” He swallows around a lump in his throat. “Is the sex drug affecting you somehow?”

“Hrm.” Geralt gazes off into the distance for so long that Jaskier assumes a real answer is not forthcoming, but eventually, he adds, “I can… scent your arousal.”

“So none of this real. It’s all the fucking monster-plant spores.” To his utter humiliation, Jaskier’s throat tightens and burns with unshed tears. The only thing worse than never getting what he wants is getting it like this—knowing Geralt doesn’t mean a single word of all those dirty wonderful promises.

He tries to stand up in order to flounce angrily back to camp, but the creek bottom is uneven and the rocks are sharp against the bare soles of his feet, and his arms pinwheel as he loses balance. Geralt catches him with an exasperated sigh.

“You have no shoes.”

“Yes thank you, I’m aware of that!” Jaskier snaps.

“So let me help. It’d be a bad time to cut your feet,” Geralt grumbles. “We still have a whole night to get through.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cold baths are not actually recommended as a fever treatment, so don’t take medical advice from fictional characters who live in medieval fantasy lands.


	5. Chapter 5

Geralt carries his bard back to camp, thrown over his shoulder and sputtering indignantly the whole way, as if either of them have any dignity left to preserve. Jaskier retreats into the tent in a huff of wounded pride, and Geralt carefully does not follow.

The sun is only dipping behind the hills and there’s an hour yet until true nightfall, but Geralt builds and lights a campfire anyway. His boots got soaked in the creek, and he pulls them off and sets them close to the heat to dry. Then his fingers go to the fastenings on his armor, more out of habit than any specific desire to be rid of the extra layers (or so he assures himself).

 _None of this is real_ —Jaskier’s words have pierced him, sinking into his flesh like poison. He knew that the spores would make Jaskier want to fuck anything with two legs and a pulse, but somehow it hurts worse to hear the words from the bard’s own mouth. Jaskier is fully cognizant that his desire for Geralt is nothing but chemical artifice. It’s horrifying to contemplate what Geralt will have to do to his friend to keep him alive, even knowing that clear-minded Jaskier wants no part of it.

Geralt isn’t strong enough not to enjoy it, not to get off on the sex that Jaskier is incapable of refusing. Geralt is a monster.

Jaskier emerges from the tent with a spare blanket wrapped around his shoulders, one hand fisted in the cloth, the other fisted… _elsewhere_. (Geralt tries desperately not to think about it.) The bard’s wearing a petulant, angry expression that makes him seem younger than he is, or perhaps just makes Geralt feel old and dulled and jaded beyond redemption. Jaskier was so painfully young when they met—still a child, really, fresh from the bards’ college and brimming with naïve, unflappable overconfidence even when the crowd jeered and pelted him with stale bread rolls. And that spark of his, that youthful intensity has not faded; Jaskier is so vibrantly _alive_ that it is almost painful to witness, at times.

If Geralt ever had such a spark, he can no longer recall. He is an instrument of death, and sooner or later he will ruin Jaskier, snuff that brilliance like a candle flame. (Geralt fears it will be sooner. Any minute now, in fact.)

Jaskier joins Geralt at the fire, sitting awkwardly since both of his hands are occupied. His lips are pressed together, and a frown line pinches his brows.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says. He wishes he could take all his inappropriate fantasies and shove them back down his throat where they belong; the last thing Jaskier deserves is to be forced to contend with not only the false arousal, but Geralt’s unwanted attentions on top of it.

“It’s fine,” Jaskier says tightly, but the bard using a two-word sentence is a pretty fucking clear indicator that it is not, in fact, fine.

Geralt wishes he couldn’t smell Jaskier, couldn’t see the rhythmic motion of his hand moving under the blanket. And Geralt really wishes he wasn’t hard again, his erection from the creek barely having started to flag and now here he is back at full mast.

_If wishes were horses, Roach would be out of a job._

Lest he give in to the urge to lean over and bury his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, Geralt needs to focus on the other scents available to him. There is the earthy smell of the slow-decaying pine needles that carpet the ground where they camp, and the sharp tang of resin from the trees above. The fire paints the air with the scent of woodsmoke. A hint of vile green stench still clings to his armor, now set aside in a pile, from when it was spattered with coccacidium juices. He can even smell the horses a little ways away, where they’re tethered at the edge of the copse.

Feeling marginally steadier, Geralt asks, “How are you?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I’m losing a battle with an uncooperative prick.”

“We know that’s not enough,” Geralt replied, gesturing vaguely at the partially concealed evidence of Jaskier stroking himself.

“By ‘uncooperative prick’ I was referring to _you_ , actually, but now that you mention it, this never-ending erection isn’t doing me any favors either.” His words are starting to slur again, his eyes half-lidded.

“I would help,” Geralt says reluctantly, swallowing around the feeling like a stone lodged in his throat. “If you allow it.”

Jaskier closes his eyes for a moment, as if steeling himself. Then he rises to his knees and slings a leg across Geralt’s hips, and suddenly Geralt finds himself with a lapful of naked, needy bard. The blanket still drapes about his shoulders but falls open in front, and the sweet smell of honeysuckle-scented oil rises from the bard’s glistening cock. Jaskier presses the small ceramic bottle of oil into Geralt’s hand.

“I need you… I can’t— _please_ , Geralt.”

Geralt’s breath catches on a ragged gasp as Jaskier’s mouth finds his throat, lips pressed hot as a brand over his pulse point. The bard’s hips squirm and roll, grinding into Geralt’s lap.

“Oh!” Those lovely blue eyes widen in surprise. “You’re _hard_ , Geralt. So hard for me… oooh, put it in me, Geralt, please, I need it…”

Clever musician’s fingers untuck Geralt’s shirt and sneak underneath it, trailing over his stomach and clinging to his ribs. Because Geralt is weak and depraved, he does nothing to stop it when Jaskier grabs the fabric and strips him of his shirt. The bard is practically riding his cock already through the fabric of his trousers, and it’s like air blown on the banked fire of his lust, flames surging higher.

Geralt grabs the blanket from Jaskier’s shoulders and spreads it on the ground. He leans forward and dumps them both onto the blanket—eliciting an undignified squawk of surprise from Jaskier—then arranges the naked bard to lie on his side, back to Geralt’s front. Geralt scrambles to loosen his laces and push his trousers down out of the way, and Jaskier watches hungrily over his shoulder as Geralt slicks his cock with the oil. The bard’s lips are wet and parted slightly on a soft moan, and Geralt wants to plunder that mouth with his tongue, but kissing won’t help Jaskier survive the night—it would be purely for Geralt’s pleasure, and that is a step too far.

“Press your legs together,” he orders.

Geralt pushes his rigid cock into the tightness between Jaskier’s thighs, and they both moan at the sensation. With a roll of his hips, he rubs against Jaskier’s balls and the base of the other man’s erection, everything hot and slick and tight. Geralt tries to avoid the sight of his own cockhead peeking out from between Jaskier’s thighs each time he thrusts, because it fills him with a hot rush of possessiveness. This isn’t real; he must remember that Jaskier does not truly belong to him.

Reaching around, Geralt bats away Jaskier’s hand and grabs the bard’s prick in his own, rubbing his calloused palm over the sensitive head. Jaskier lets out a keening noise from between clenched teeth, as if he’s on the edge and struggling not to tumble over.

“Don’t hold out,” Geralt growls in his ear. “Be a good boy and come for me, Jaskier.”

Jaskier tenses and cries out as he spills his seed, Geralt milking every last drop from his prick. And _fuck_ , there’s nothing hotter than the sight of Jaskier coming on command. This time, Geralt can’t hold back; heat coils low in his abdomen, and in an inexorable rush, his orgasm waves through him and he paints the insides of Jaskier’s thighs with his come.

Geralt pulls away slightly, drawing deep, steadying breaths. Jaskier flops onto his back on the blanket and gives him a _look_ that Geralt finds difficult to parse.

He doesn’t know how to interpret Jaskier’s odd expression, so he ignores it and says, “Do you want a break, or do you want more?”

“Geralt… you needn’t feel obligated to…” Jaskier says morosely, as if he thinks pleasuring him is some kind of chore for Geralt.

The thought makes him unaccountably angry, and he growls, “On your knees.”

The bard yelps and rolls over, scrambling to brace himself on knees and elbows, arse shamelessly displayed in the air. Geralt slicks his fingers with the oil and then rubs over Jaskier’s hole, massaging the ring of muscle.

“The more you ejaculate, the faster you purge the toxin,” Geralt reminded. “I’ll stop if you need me to. Otherwise, I’ll get you off as many times as I can. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Jaskier whimpers. The bard has never in his life called Geralt _sir_ and he doesn’t know what to make of it now, except that it sends a spark of interest to his spent cock.

Geralt starts with a single finger, which slides ever so easily into the bard’s entrance. Jaskier is hot and tight inside, but relaxing quickly under Geralt’s diligent ministrations, and soon he adds a second finger. Jaskier makes a broken mewling sound and rocks his hips back, fucking himself on Geralt’s hand, his arsehole hungrily swallowing those digits.

“Fuck,” Geralt groans at the sight.

He thought it would be relatively safe to do this now, in the wake of his orgasm, but thanks to his gods-damned witcher stamina his cock is already twitching with interest. Curling his fingers inside Jaskier, he finds the sensitive bundle of nerves that makes the bard twitch and shiver and keen. He presses mercilessly into the spot until Jaskier arches his back and screams in pleasure and comes all over the blanket in another messy spurt. (A sober human would be dry by now, but the spores are affecting more than just his pheromones.)

Jaskier looks deliciously wrecked—face planted in the blanket, arms tossed loosely about his head, thighs quivering. He whines softly when Geralt slips his fingers out, but he has no intention of leaving the bard empty and wanting for long. Geralt leans closer and licks a long stripe from his balls all the way up through the cleft of his arse, and Jaskier gasps.

“Geralt! What— _oh gods…_ ”

A moan chokes off Jaskier’s words as Geralt flicks the tip of his tongue over his hole, teasing at the entrance before pressing inside. The bard tastes of the sweet-scented oil but also of _Jaskier_ and it is so filthy and so good and Geralt is _lost_ , drowning in sensory overload. He wants to smear his own smell all over the bard, fill him up with it, he wants to taste himself inside Jaskier. Geralt fucks Jaskier with his tongue, and it’s delicious and it’s not enough, and his self-control escapes him like a hilt slipping from numb fingers.

Geralt’s cock is hard as stone and weeping from neglect, and Jaskier’s sweet arse is ready and welcoming. He can’t stop himself; he’s going to fuck the bard.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the somewhat belated update! This chapter was kicking my ass last week.

Jaskier must be dreaming—or perhaps he died and this is the afterlife?—because Geralt of Rivia’s _tongue_ is plunging his hole, and the sensation’s so intense he’s shaking from it, a tingling heat rushing over his skin. He’s so turned on he has trouble drawing air into his lungs, so when Geralt pulls away, all he can do is let out a small, breathy whine. But then the length of Geralt’s shaft rubs in the cleft of his arse, hot and sweet like a promise, and _oooh_ , he has never in his life wanted a dick this bad.

Geralt’s voice is rough and so low he feels it as a rumbling vibration where Geralt leans against his back. “Tell me you want it.”

“Melitele’s tits, if you don’t stick it in me right now I am literally going to _die_ from the absence of your cock. Have a little mercy and _fuck me_ already!”

Geralt growls way down in his bass register, and Jaskier _quakes_ at the sound. The head of the witcher’s cock noses at his hole, pressing almost hesitantly, and _fuck_ it’s huge—Jaskier swears under his breath and bears down. Geralt’s cock definitely takes the prize for thickest object he’s ever tried to insert into himself, and while Jaskier is really more of a sexual omnivore, something tells him he’s about to be converted into a _dedicated_ cock slut.

The stretch hurts, but it also sends waves of pleasure radiating up his spine as Geralt slowly invades his body. Jaskier pushes up onto his hands to give himself some leverage to rock back onto that glorious cock, impatient with the witcher’s teasingly slow entrance. Geralt snorts and grabs his hips in a bruising grip, denying Jaskier any control, and even that feels maddeningly good—he struggles against the witcher’s impossible strength, whimpering for more while simultaneously delighting in Geralt’s mastery of the encounter.

Geralt sinks into him, giving him more, _so much_ more—it’s too much and it hurts and it’s perfect, it’s everything he’s wanted for ten years, and Jaskier’s so full he can practically feel cock in the back of his throat, speared straight through.

“Oh fuck—oh fuck…” Jaskier gasps, irrepressible fire coiling in his groin; just the feel of Geralt’s massive cock filling him is enough to push him close to the edge.

Geralt makes an impossibly deep growling noise, primal and possessive and so fucking hot, and even if Jaskier never gets to have the witcher again, the memory of that sound will nourish him until his dying day. He’d immortalize it in a song, if only the pitch weren’t too low for the bass strings on his lute.

“I told you not to hold back,” the witcher grunts, his hand wrapping around Jaskier’s prick and stroking fast. “Come for me, little bard.”

Jaskier screeches Geralt’s name as the orgasm hits him like a punch, a hot burst of pleasure-pain shuddering through him. His body clenches tight as a vise around the witcher’s cock, and Geralt lets out a wrecked noise through bared teeth, somehow resisting his own release as he rides out Jaskier’s bucking and writhing.

Jaskier flops bonelessly on the blanket, his shaking knees still holding him up mostly by virtue of the iron grip Geralt has on his hips. He’s still gasping for breath when Geralt starts rocking in and out of him, gentle at first, which is really terribly thoughtful of him considering what a twitching, sobbing, overstimulated mess Jaskier has been reduced to. Geralt braces a hand against the ground and leans closer, planting wet open-mouthed kisses between Jaskier’s shoulder blades as he steadily, tenderly plows inside him.

“Ooh… _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier pants. The rhythm grows more insistent, until it feels like Geralt is fucking the breath out of his lungs with each thrust. “Please—please— if this is a… a pity fuck, I don’t—I can’t—” His thoughts scatter like autumn leaves in a stiff breeze, the words refusing to arrange themselves. Everything feels so good he wants to _weep_ , but the niggling worry creeps up on him again—the plant toxin has coerced Geralt into doing this, and what if he blames Jaskier for it tomorrow?

Geralt rumbles low in his chest, then reaches under Jaskier and hauls them both up to a sitting position. Jaskier makes a strangled noise as his weight settles in Geralt’s lap—apparently, there is a _deeper_ and now Geralt’s cock is absolutely _buried_ inside him. Jaskier’s quivering legs are too weak and fucked out to properly ride him, but it doesn’t matter as a strong arm pins him back against Geralt’s chest, and the witcher’s hips snap up with single-minded focus. Geralt grabs a fistful of Jaskier’s hair and pulls his head back against that strong shoulder, exposing the curve of Jaskier’s neck so he can run his nose along it, inhaling deeply. If anyone asked Jaskier before this, he never would have guessed that being _sniffed_ could be a turn-on, but… well, it’s _Geralt_.

“Everyone watches you like they want to consume a piece of you.” Geralt says, the words tumbling from his mouth like coins from a spilt purse. “But they can’t have you, you’re mine, I’m going to fuck you until you know that you’re mine _forever_.”

“Yes, oh _fuck_ yes!” Jaskier has waited a gods-damned _decade_ to hear those words, and he clutches desperately at every inch of Geralt’s skin that he can reach, helpless in the witcher’s arms and ecstatic about it.

Geralt runs his teeth down Jaskier’s neck and bites down on the meat of his shoulder, sending a shock of pain and desire like lightning down his spine straight to his cock. He tenses up and comes untouched, rapture pulsing through him like a second heartbeat. This time, Geralt’s rhythm falters, and he comes inside Jaskier with a rush of wet warmth, the orgasm tearing a groan from the witcher’s throat.

Jaskier leans shamelessly back against Geralt’s chest, letting the witcher hold him up as he gulps for air. The cock still sheathed in his arse twitches and softens, and Jaskier swallows a whimper at the thought that soon he’ll be empty. It takes him another minute to realize his own erection is finally— _finally—_ flagging.

“Thank the gods!” Jaskier pants. “I swear, Geralt, I’ve never in my life been so grateful to have my dick go soft.” He chuckles, giddy and high in the wake of what they just did together.

Geralt brushes a gentle hand over his throat, his cheek, his forehead, and Jaskier knows he’s checking for fever, but it’s easy to pretend the touch is a lover’s caress.

“Is it over then?” Jaskier’s voice sounds smaller than he meant it to; that forlorn note isn’t supposed to be there at all, no matter the pang of anxious yearning in his chest.

The witcher rests his hands on Jaskier’s waist and gently but firmly maneuvers him off his lap. Jaskier can’t help the small whine of disappointment, nor the furious blush that follows as he sits on the blanket and feels Geralt’s come leaking out of him.

“We’ve… made progress.” Geralt finally grinds out, his jaw tight with contained emotion. “But you will likely experience at least one more flush before the toxin is fully purged.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says with as much casual neutrality as he can muster. And if his heart races a little at the thought of getting a second round of intimate pleasure with Geralt, well… who can blame him?

The witcher squeezes his eyes shut, his expression pained. “Jaskier, I—I’m sorry.”

Jaskier blinks, struggling to process such an inane statement. “You’re… sorry for giving me so many earth-shattering orgasms that I’ve literally lost count?” When the question is answered only with silence, a terrible, slow-growing sensation of dread opens up like a pit in his stomach. “Is what we’ve done really so repugnant to you?”

“No. Yes.” Geralt huffs. “I swore I would not take advantage of your compromised state, and now I’ve done exactly that.”

“What nonsense are you talking about? _I’m_ the one who roped _you_ into this, against your better judgment.”

Geralt snorts, dismissing Jaskier’s guilt and reclaiming the blame for himself in a single, nonverbal sound. “I _liked_ it,” he spits, as if he’s disgusted with himself—and oh no, that will _not_ do, Jaskier won’t stand for it.

“Geralt… if I weren’t in mortal peril, this would be the best night of my life.” A small, slightly hysterical laugh bubbles out of him. “Gods, this might be the best night of my life even _including_ the mortal peril.”

“You will not feel that way come morning.”

“That’s not for you to decide!” Jaskier snaps, then he lets out a deep breath, expelling his upset. “Can we table this whole _who’s more injured_ argument for now? You can grump at me tomorrow, but right now I’m feeling rather glowy and I see no reason to ruin it.”

“Hrm,” Geralt concedes, and allows Jaskier to lean into his side.

.o.O.o.

When the desire builds again, they decide to retire to the tent for the remainder of the night. Jaskier rides Geralt like a pony until his limbs are trembling too much to maintain a rhythm. Geralt eats him out and smears witcher come all over his thighs, which he’s distantly aware is going to be gross in the morning—but the feeling of being so thoroughly debauched by the man he’s been obsessing over for basically his entire adult life is like a drug in itself, separate from the plant toxin and potent in its own unique way. Jaskier would submit himself to anything Geralt wants, and get off on it, too.

Geralt has surprisingly little difficulty with the challenge of pounding Jaskier into the bedroll all night, despite not having the assistance of any magical hormone-altering sex spores to fuel him. Some time around midnight, Jaskier dissolves into hysterical giggles as he realizes he’s going to have a _serious problem_ keeping his witcher satisfied once the toxin has left his system and he’s back to his normal human level of horniness. No wonder Geralt’s money tends to vanish into the brothels! Witcher stamina is good for more than just monster-slaying, apparently.

Geralt is stubbornly reticent about kissing him properly on the mouth, but with that exception, he seems to enjoy everything else they do, and Jaskier’s heart soars. They’re _finally_ together the way he always wanted, and it turns out Geralt doesn’t hate that secret part of Jaskier after all. They go another two rounds before the last of the toxin is purged and Jaskier’s body is exhausted, and it must be nearly dawn when he falls asleep in Geralt’s arms.

.o.O.o.

When Jaskier wakes up, Geralt has already vacated the tent, but that’s hardly a surprise—he always sleeps later than the witcher. By the brightness of the sunlight creeping through tent slit, it must be closer to noon than dawn. Jaskier groans and rubs his eyes, squirming in the bedroll. He expects to feel gross with dried come crusted onto his skin, but he doesn’t; though he has no memory of it, Geralt must have wiped him down at some point. He does feel _sore_ , and he hopes the witcher won’t be too eager to rush off to the next contract, because Jaskier’s arse is definitely not going in the saddle today.

“Geralt?” he calls blearily. “Is breakfast ready?”

No reply.

Jaskier fumbles around in his pack, managing to find a shirt and trousers. “Oh come on, Geralt, you can’t have used up your daily quota of words yet—not unless Roach has been an exceptionally talented conversationalist this morning.”

Successfully clothed, Jaskier emerges from the tent and freezes.

There’s no breakfast; the campfire is a pile of cold ashes. His gaze skirts over their camp site, taking inventory, stunned with disbelief. Geralt’s boots are gone, his armor’s gone, his swords are gone... _Roach_ is gone. Jaskier feels a strange rushing sensation, as if he’s falling while standing completely still. The emptiness inside him yawns so wide he’s surprised he doesn’t implode.

Geralt has abandoned him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the delightful feedback, folks! I’m used to writing in the (somewhat inactive) Dragon Age fandom, so the response here has been amazing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the consensus last chapter was WTF GERALT NO, we’re gonna rewind a little bit to see what the actual fuck Geralt was thinking. Strap in for some Geralt Angst!

Jaskier falls asleep mid-sentence with his face mashed into Geralt’s shoulder, and it’s impossible not to smile a little at his ridiculous, wonderful bard. Geralt runs his fingertips lightly over the smooth, unmarred skin of Jaskier’s back, careful not to wake him given his state of exhaustion.

The unnatural pheromone has mercifully dissipated, though now Jaskier smells of Geralt’s sweat and come. In and of themselves, those scents on the bard’s skin would be irresistably arousing, but Geralt is _spent_ after an entire night of fucking the toxin out of him. Instead, he just feels… satisfied, as if some deep, primal part of himself is sated by the evidence of how thoroughly Jaskier has been claimed. _Mine_ , he thinks. _Mine at last._

Geralt drifts on the edge of sleep for a while before he remembers that he ought to take care of his bard. He extricates himself from the stranglehold of Jaskier’s snuggling and finds a washcloth and a waterskin to moisten it with, moving about mostly by touch in the dark, and he gently cleans Jaskier. Worn out from the effects of the spores, the bard mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep, but doesn’t fully wake. That done, Geralt resettles on the rumpled nest of bedrolls, hopeful that he’ll be able to catch a couple hours’ sleep before the daylight wakes him.

Jaskier said he enjoyed it. He doesn’t blame Geralt. He even hinted that he might be open to repeating such activities without the complication of coccacidium toxin. Everything will be fine.

.o.O.o.

Geralt wakes shortly after dawn, his body too attuned to the cycle of days to let him sleep longer. Jaskier is snoring lightly and drooling on the bedroll, his brown hair adorably mussed. Warm contentment spreads through Geralt’s chest. With the Path he walks, it’s dangerous to want things for himself, or so his training drilled into him. But perhaps if the want is shared, it matters less that Geralt doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve _him_. If this makes Jaskier happy, perhaps Geralt doesn’t have to brush it aside as a foolish mistake.

The blanket has slipped down off Jaskier’s shoulder and Geralt frowns. It looks like there’s something… what is…? He slowly uncovers his friend’s body and sucks in a horrified breath—Jaskier is _painted_ with fresh bruising. The imprints of fingers that dug too hard into his hips, the paired half-moons of bite marks, the red around his wrists where Geralt _held him down_ …

His heart does not race with panic because it physically can’t, but Geralt still feels dizzy with sickening realization. He hurt Jaskier. He can remember _trying_ to be gentle, but the damning evidence of his brutality is written all over the bard’s skin. Like the monster he is, Geralt took his pleasure, and the toxin left Jaskier with no choice but to submit to this abuse.

The memory of Jaskier begging for his cock torments Geralt. How could he have been so stupid as to accept it at face value? In such a state of forced arousal, Jaskier would have said _anything_ to keep Geralt close; his life literally depended on convincing Geralt that everything was all right, so of course he would sing the praises of his abuser. How could do otherwise? _Best night of my life_ —what a sick joke that is.

Jaskier should not have to wake up beside the man who repeatedly raped him. Because what other word for it is there? Geralt hurt him and enjoyed it while Jaskier was rendered incapable of saying _no_. Jaskier will wake with a clear mind, and he’ll know that Geralt is willing to fuck him without his consent, and the betrayal will destroy their friendship. It is the only logical outcome.

At the very least, Jaskier deserves some privacy in which to process what happened, so Geralt quietly leaves the tent. He stands around still naked, staring stupidly at their campsite for a minute, before retrieving his shirt and trousers. His boots aren’t quite dry, but it would hardly be the first time he shoved his feet into damp footwear. His armor hasn’t been cleaned—he pushes away the memory of why he neglected to take care of that last evening, and he puts the armor on anyway. He leads both horses to the creek to water them, and then tacks Roach.

Geralt doesn’t notice when the impulse to _get away_ starts, but it simmers in the back of his mind, growing louder and more incessant until the feeling is impossible to ignore. He does not deserve to linger in Jaskier’s presence and needs to remove himself _now_ , before the bard wakes.

He loads his saddlebags with mechanical efficiency. Jaskier is tangled up in both of their bedrolls, so he makes no attempt to retrieve his and settles on packing the spare blanket that was laid out by the fire, instead. The tent is also technically Geralt’s, but he only purchased it to alleviate the bard’s constant complaining— _honestly, Geralt, a tarp hanging from a tree branch is not sufficient protection against the elements—_ so he leaves that as well.

This is for the best. Jaskier will be relieved at his absence. Going away is the least Geralt can do.

.o.O.o.

Geralt retraces their route to the old carriage house, where he hacks the flowerhead off the coccacidium to present to the client. It’s not that the coin concerns him—he couldn’t care less about getting paid, at the moment—but in the absence of any clearer idea of what to do with himself, he goes through the motions. The same familiar acts he has performed for the past seventy years. Slay the monster, bring proof that the contract has been fulfilled, collect the bounty. He doesn’t know how to do anything else; this is all he is.

It was delusional to think he might be capable of something more than this—of friendship, of forming a meaningful connection to someone who still has access to the full range of human emotion. He should never have let his guard down, let the bard get close. Witchers are meant to walk the Path alone. He will learn from this mistake and never repeat it.

Geralt ties the coccacidium head to the saddle and mounts, then angles Roach across the fallow fields in the direction of the manor house. Between the unwashed blanket tied to his saddlebags and the dried smear of come on the back of his armor, Jaskier’s smell follows him like a gods-damned hym, allowing not a moment’s peace from the ache of his guilt.

He was made for killing. Everything he touches dies.

The baron is a typical weaselly nobleman, all that desperate urgency vanishing as soon as the contract is complete. Geralt dumps the putrid flowerhead on a probably-expensive carpet in the front hall and glowers until he gets paid most of what he was promised. (Jaskier would have talked circles around the baron and left with a purse twice as heavy, but Jaskier is not here.) Geralt leaves without saying two words.

There’s a crabapple tree at the edge of the estate, and Geralt pauses to gather a few and feed them to Roach, stewing in uncertainty as the horse ignores his upset and enjoys her snack. He should go back to the campsite, just to check on Jaskier. Should he go back? No. No, Jaskier needs space, he likely won’t feel safe around Geralt anymore. Why would he, after what Geralt did?

It’s over, Geralt ruined it. There’s no reason to drag this out, make it harder on Jaskier than it needs to be. Geralt will simply go on—find the next town, the next contract—and Jaskier will be free to forget him.

.o.O.o.

Half a week later, he’s sitting in the darkest corner of a tavern, tucking in to a plate of pork roast and cabbage when the door bangs open and a familiar figure stalks inside. Geralt is helpless to resist the rush of warmth that floods his chest. Jaskier looks furious— _smells_ furious, even from across a crowded tavern that reeks of sour ale and sweat with an undertone of not-quite-cleaned vomit. But surely Jaskier wouldn’t have pursued him all this way just to tell him what he already knows (that he’s a monster who committed an unforgivable violation). A small seed of hope takes root inside Geralt—is it possible Jaskier believes their partnership can be mended?

The bard spots him easily; it’s not as if Geralt’s penchant for lurking in the shadows with his back to a wall has ever been a secret. _I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood_ —the very first words Jaskier said to him. Geralt slides his plate aside and watches as Jaskier weaves his way between the crowded tables, a manic sort of energy fueling his steps.

The bard doesn’t take a seat, but he does set his lute case on the table, and his tongue starts running before Geralt can even begin to formulate an apology. “I have spent three days trying to come up with a phrase that rhymes with _world’s biggest horsefucker_ , but even my legendary poetic talents are not up to such a challenge. Yeah, there’s _bloodsucker_ obviously, but I just don’t see how I’m supposed to work vampires into this one.”

“Jaskier…” There are too many words he needs to say, all jumbling together and catching in his throat until he can’t manage to voice a single one.

“Geralt.” The bard’s gaze is sharp and shining. “ _How could you?_ ”

He sucks in a breath—there it is, the look of betrayal in those blue eyes—and Geralt’s hope turns to ash. No, Jaskier will not forgive him for what he did that horrible night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lack of smut—we’ll get back around to sexytimes soon, but Geralt just really needed to wallow in his Man Pain (Witcher Pain?) for a bit.
> 
> Lore note: if you haven't played the video games, a hym is like a spirit that follows you around slowly driving you insane while it feeds on your guilt.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I wanted to get this done earlier, but it's been a crazy week.

Jaskier doesn’t know _why_ he’s surprised that Geralt can’t manage to rub two words together into something resembling a sentence and just fucking explain himself—it’s _Geralt_ , after all. He should not be surprised.

“Right, yeah,” he says with false brightness. “You do your whole _glower in the corner_ thing, and I’ll do what _I_ do best!”

He flings open the lid of his lute case with more of a dramatic flourish than is strictly necessary and settles the instrument strap over his shoulder. His thumb strums across the strings to check the tuning and call the attention of the tavern patrons.

“A new twist on an old favorite, debuting here just for you, my friends!” he announces, and if his grin is a bit too viciously manic, hopefully they won’t notice. Then he dives into the fresh version of _Toss A Coin_ that he’s spent the past three days rewriting the lyrics for. It’s… not a complementary version.

When he glances over his shoulder after the first chorus, Geralt is looking distinctly displeased. Or perhaps constipated. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

“That’s his epic fail

He packed up and turned tail

Abandoned his best friend

Excuses are stale!

Toss a coin to your monster…”

“Jaskier!” Geralt finally interrupts, shooting to his feet.

Jaskier spins slowly on his heel to face him, dampening the last notes with a palm against the strings. He raises his eyebrows with faux innocence. “Don’t you like my singing, Geralt?”

“Enough,” the witcher growls.

“Is it, though? I think maybe you need a little more.” He plucks a minor chord menacingly.

A muscle twitches on Geralt’s jaw as his teeth clench. “I cannot undo what happened. All I can do is ensure it does not happen again.”

Jaskier huffs and tucks the lute away, abruptly tired with the sweet musical vengeance he’s been planning for days. “Did you even listen? To the actual words?”

So quiet he can barely hear it above the background din of the tavern, Geralt says, “I know I’m a monster, Jaskier.”

He runs his hands over his face. “Of course, _of course_ that’s the part you’d latch onto.”

“It is the only part that matters.”

“I’m not mad about the mindblowingly hot sex, Geralt!” he shouts at the top of his lungs—which, considering that he’s a professional singer, is quite loud.

A sudden silence falls as all the patrons crane their necks to ogle the lover’s quarrel. Jaskier winces when someone’s fork clatters to the floor, loud against the oppressive quiet. They’re probably all wondering when the bard is going to lose his head for yelling at a witcher.

“Yeah, good, yeah,” he mutters to himself, then turns to face the room. “As you were, you nosy gits!”

The tavern patrons reluctantly turn back to their food and ale, though the conversations are now mostly hushed, gossipy whispers, the subject of which is not hard to guess. Jaskier looks Geralt over more closely, noting that he doesn’t have his travel bags with him, which means he’s already taken a room upstairs. Jaskier himself isn’t particularly phased by a little public humiliation— _any_ kind of attention is preferable to being ignored—but he knows Geralt doesn’t like to be noticed.

“Fine, I will have mercy on you and allow this conversation to continue in a more private setting.”

He shoulders his lute case and makes for the second floor without looking back to see if Geralt will follow. Jaskier crests the top of the stairs, feeling momentarily proud of himself for his decisiveness, and then has to loiter in the hall until Geralt catches up, on account of not knowing which room is his. It rather deflates his sense of control. Geralt unlocks the door at the end of the hall and lets them both into a sparse but cozy little room tucked up under the rafters.

While Jaskier sets down his lute on the rickety table in one corner, Geralt stands awkwardly in the middle of the room like a particularly disgruntled statue. Jaskier sighs. “I’d tell you to get comfortable, but that’s a lost fucking cause. Take off your swords, at least. You can find something to stab tomorrow.”

Geralt grunts—Jaskier thinks this one falls somewhere between his irritated grunt and his reluctant grunt—but he flicks open a buckle and shrugs out of his shoulder harness.

“Since you seem to be feeling your usual level of loquaciousness this fine evening, why don’t I tell you about the week I’ve had.” Jaskier sits at the foot of the bed and leans back on his hands. “This amazing man whom I’ve been wanting for… frankly, an embarrassingly long time gave me a fantastic night of pleasure, despite how I was the idiot who got too close to the monster-plant thingy. And then he vanished like a fucking specter while I slept.”

Geralt snorts and shakes his head as if the words are gnats to be avoided.

“No, listen to me: did it even occur to you that I was suddenly stuck camping alone, and there could’ve been, I don’t know, wolves or bandits or something? I only sleep outside when I’m traveling with you—despite appearances to the contrary, I’m actually rather fond of having all my limbs attached to my body.” Jaskier sucked in a deep breath, attempting to modulate the freeflow of angry words. “You left me behind like a cheap whore, Geralt.”

“That’s not— you can’t have—” The witcher squeezes his eyes shut beneath a furious frown. “I hurt you.”

Jaskier sniffs. “I admit I was a teeny bit devastated to find you’d ditched me.”

“No,” he growls. “I woke and… you had bruises all over you.”

Jaskier blinks, completely taken aback by the raw agony in Geralt’s tone. He _likes_ the bruises; they’re proof it all actually happened. On the first day alone, he kept pressing his fingers against the bite mark on his shoulder to remind himself he hadn’t _lost his mind_ , and he was sad when the ache faded.

“Geralt, dear heart… humans bruise easily. That doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it.”

“Hrm,” he answers skeptically.

Jaskier really planned to be proper mad at Geralt—he promised himself he wouldn’t bend like a willow and let the witcher off easy, pretend his abandonment was some unfortunate mistake and just go back to the way things were. But _fuck_ , this misapprehension cannot be allowed to persist. He stands and approaches Geralt slowly, raising a hand to rest on the hardened leather cuirass. The witcher’s muscles are so tense Jaskier half expects he could pluck them and produce a note, but nonetheless he allows the touch.

“I _liked it_ , Geralt. I liked your fingers on my hips, your teeth on my back. Gods, how are you a hundred years old and you haven’t figured out what a _complete turn-on_ it is for humans to get manhandled by a big, strong warrior?” Jaskier bites his lip. Just the memory of how Geralt held him down and fucked him is enough to make his cock harden inside his trousers.

Geralt doesn’t reply, but he’s staring into Jaskier’s eyes with such intensity and doubt.

“Can’t you _smell_ that I want you?”

A frown line appears between his brows. “Nothing has changed. You often smell faintly of arousal. Always have.”

Jaskier stares at him incredulously. “Uh… yeah, Geralt. I smell constantly at least a little turned on—when I’m _with you_ , you great lummox. Did you think I was just perpetually low-level aroused for my entire adult life? Because let me assure you, it’s situational.”

Before his thick-skulled witcher can arrive at any more shockingly misinformed conclusions, Jaskier hooks his fingers over the neckline of his armor and kisses him. Geralt gasps against his mouth as if Jaskier has plunged a dagger into his back instead of merely pressing their lips together, but he doesn’t pull away. Recovering from the surprise, Geralt kisses him back, a slow, sweet exploration. He raises his hands to cup Jaskier’s face, thumbs on his temples, fingers carding into the hair on the nape of his neck.

Even though Geralt is being so tentative, _so_ gentle with him, Jaskier’s heartbeat turns jackrabbit-fast in his chest. He has wanted to taste that mouth for ten years and now it’s _his_ , he’s allowed to have this, and he feels like he might burst with the joy of it. When their tongues twine together, it’s impossible not to think of what _else_ Geralt’s talented tongue has proven mastery of, and a quiver of anticipation runs down Jaskier’s spine.

Geralt pulls away from the kiss first, still holding Jaskier’s face between his hands carefully, as if grasping something precious. “You’re not angry I took advantage of you?”

“Aside from the running away afterward,” Jaskier answers breathlessly, “I promise you did _nothing_ I didn’t want. And I’d really, really appreciate the chance to prove it to you.”

Geralt’s eyebrow twitches. “Prove it… how?”

Jaskier grins and goes down on one knee in joking imitation of a lad courting a maiden’s hand. “Geralt of Rivia, would you do me the honor of fucking me through the mattress while we’re both completely sober?”

“Hrm.” Geralt stares down at him, his cat-eyed pupils blown so wide they’re round. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're impatient for more angsty dubcon by me, my Dragon Age fic "Fair Exchange" is very much in the same vein (albeit with slightly more plot).


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ran long, but there's no good place to divide it, so here's the whole thing for your instant gratification!

Geralt manages to get his armor and his boots off before the need to touch Jaskier again becomes impossible to ignore. Jaskier has shed his doublet and chemise, and Geralt can’t help but run his hands over all that smooth, pale skin. The bruises are _still there_ —gods, don’t humans ever heal?—dark and purple with age, now, and Geralt wants to kiss an apology over each one.

Instead, he holds Jaskier close, buries his nose in the crook of the bard’s neck, and inhales deeply. Jaskier smells like clean skin and that citrus-scented soap he prefers, with the slightly sweet musk of male arousal getting stronger by the moment, and most importantly, not even a hint of sour fear. A contented purr rumbles in Geralt’s chest instinctively, and he’d be embarrassed about making such a noise if he weren’t so relieved that Jaskier truly isn’t afraid of him.

“Oh _fuck_ Geralt,” Jaskier whimpers as the scent of his arousal spikes, and he goes weak in the knees.

Geralt makes the rumbling noise again, on purpose this time, just to feel how it turns his bard into a quivering mess in his arms. He grins wolfishly against the curve of Jaskier’s throat. “Like that, do you?”

Jaskier laughs breathlessly. “If you’re not careful, I’m going to come in my trousers just from the _sounds_ you make.”

Geralt doesn’t really understand the appeal. When they fed him the extra mutagens during his Trials, he screamed so much he damaged his vocal chords, leaving him with a voice rough as a coal miner’s. But if it works for Jaskier, he supposes he can’t complain.

“So take off your trousers,” Geralt growls softly in his ear.

“Yes, sir!” Jaskier squeaks in a sudden falsetto.

Remarkably quickly, they’re both divested of the rest of their clothes, and Geralt is lying on his back on the bed with Jaskier’s wet lips teasing the head of his cock. Jaskier sucks on the tip, tongue flicking over the slit.

“ _Hff_ — _hn_ —” It feels so good Geralt struggles for a minute to form syllables that can fit together into words. “You don’t have to, I don’t expect…”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Oh, be quiet, I have a point to prove.” He licks along the underside from root to tip, making Geralt whine through clenched teeth. “If you really prefer, I could always worship your magnificent cock by composing a song about it, but somehow I think you’ll enjoy this use of my mouth better.”

Jaskier envelops him in the hot, moist velvet of his mouth, cheeks hollowing with delirious suction when he pulls up. He takes Geralt deeper each time he bobs down, and nothing short of _iron will_ keeps his hips from thrusting off the mattress.

“ _Hrnnnh_ — Jaskier, don’t hurt your throat,” Geralt argues, because he’s a damned _bard_ , he needs his voice to make a living, he shouldn’t be— “ _Fuck!_ ”

Jaskier’s throat is a tight band around the sensitive head of his cock, hot and wet and perfect. Geralt has had professional whores take one look at his dick and tell him it’ll cost extra, and here’s Jaskier swallowing him down like he’s _thirsty_ for it. He’s so full of cock that he can’t draw breath and his face is turning red.

Geralt weaves his fingers through the bard’s hair and gives it a sharp tug. “Come up for air, you crazy fucker!”

Jaskier pulls off Geralt’s cock, gasping and grinning like a fiend, a thread of spit and precome trailing from his bottom lip. He wipes it with the back of his hand, and somehow even that offhand gesture is intensely erotic. “Do you believe me now?”

“Hrm.”

Something about being the recipient of Jaskier’s attentions makes Geralt feel… unworthy. As if he has done nothing to deserve this. So he reaches for Jaskier’s hips and simply rearranges the bard—ignoring his surprised squawk—with his mouth still in range of Geralt’s erection but his knees now straddling Geralt’s chest.

“Wha—well, fine then,” Jaskier says, sounding flustered, before he dips his head to reclaim his mission.

Geralt, for his part, nips his way up the backs of Jaskier’s thighs, trying to resist the urge to sink his teeth too firmly into all that beautiful, sensitive flesh. This feels better—hot suction around his cock and Jaskier’s skin on his tongue. He ducks his head, nosing and suckling at the bard’s balls, letting his senses flood with the smell and taste of him.

Jaskier pulls off Geralt’s dick with an obscene _pop_. “Melitele’s sweet bosom, how am I supposed to concentrate when you’re— _oooh_ —”

Geralt’s tongue migrates higher, teasing at his hole, and Jaskier starts making breathy little whines, fast and shallow. As Geralt thrusts his tongue into the welcoming ring of muscle, Jaskier seems to entirely forget that he was in the middle of giving a blowjob.

Geralt leans away just far enough to deliver a firm swat to that lovely rump, making Jaskier yelp in protest. “Focus, bard.”

“I can’t—how am I supposed to—gods, you’re impossible,” Jaskier complains.

The irresistible lure of tasting his bard draws Geralt back in until he’s fucking Jaskier with his tongue again, but he growls against Jaskier’s arse. Jaskier shivers as if the sound vibrated through is whole body, and his cock drips precome on Geralt’s sternum.

“No, no,” the bard babbles incoherently, “I’m supposed to be… you have to—have to _behave yourself_ and… let me show you—show how much I want you.”

Jaskier squirms away, and Geralt allows it, befuddled, watching intently for any sign of discomfort. Did he do something wrong, something Jaskier didn’t like?

Jaskier scoots to the edge of the bed and stands, then pauses when he takes in Geralt’s expression. He sighs. “There’s no need to gaze at me like a kicked puppy, I’m just getting the oil. Sit up against the headboard while I fetch it.”

Geralt repositions himself and watches Jaskier rifle through his pack. He returns to the bed with the small ceramic bottle of scented oil and kneels beside Geralt. The bard spreads oil on the fingers of both hands, then uses one to jack Geralt’s achingly hard cock while opening himself up with the other. Strong, calloused fingers running slick and easy over his rigid length… Geralt bites his lower lip, barely restraining the urge to pin Jaskier down and ravish him immediately.

But as it turns out, waiting is not the bard’s plan—Jaskier lunges into Geralt’s lap and sits on his cock, impales himself like it’s no challenge at all, like Geralt’s cock _belongs_ inside him, a custom-fitted sheath for Geralt’s sword. Then the bard weaves his hands in Geralt’s hair and mashes their mouths together in a frantic, messy kiss. The honeysuckle scent of the oil on his hands floods Geralt’s nose, and _fuck_ his hair is going to smell like sex for _days_ now, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when there are tongues and teeth and Jaskier’s needy passion demanding his attention.

Jaskier rocks his hips, Geralt still buried to the hilt inside him, and Geralt moans at the sensation. The bard feels so fucking good just sitting in his lap, warming his cock. He could do this all night. But Jaskier leans back a little, breaking the kiss, a small knot of uncertain worry furrowing his brow.

“Geralt, you know I… now that I’m no longer high on magic plant spores, I’m just human. I won’t be able to stay hard through a baker’s dozen orgasms.”

“Hrm.” Geralt doesn’t like the thought of his brazen, cocksure bard feeling insecure. “I can make you last. If you want.”

Jaskier gives him a quizzical look and opens his mouth to reply, but Geralt decides a demonstration would be better; he thrusts up into Jaskier, punching the air from his lungs so all that comes out of that open mouth is a breathy moan. He puts his hands on the bard’s hips and encourages him to start riding at a steady pace. Jaskier looks so beautiful, flushed and sweating and bouncing on Geralt’s cock, lips kiss-swollen and parted slightly as he pants from exertion. Geralt wraps his hand around Jaskier’s lovely prick and pumps in rhythm with their fucking, and when his songbird makes that little mewling noise it stokes his own lust like a fire building in him.

He listens to the rhythm of Jaskier’s heart, the hitch of his breathing, bringing him right up to the edge with fast, firm strokes… and then squeezes the base of his cock to stop him from coming. Jaskier squawks indignantly and tries to fuck himself harder of Geralt’s shaft, but Geralt grabs his hip in his other hand and holds him still.

“Oooh fuck you, Geralt, I take it back I don’t wanna last, please Geraaalt, let me come,” the bard begs, wriggling in his grip.

“Shhh, you’re so gorgeous like this.” Geralt pets his cock, teasingly slow and gentle, and Jaskier shudders. “Be a good boy and be patient for me.”

“So mean,” Jaskier whines.

When Geralt can hear that the bard’s pulse has backed down from edge of orgasm, he wraps one arm around Jaskier and lifts them both, shifting down on the bed and flipping Jaskier onto his back. He leans his weight on his elbows so as not to crush the other man, and he starts moving again with long, slow, languorous thrusts.

“ _Ooh, oooh_ …” is all the commentary Jaskier manages to muster regarding the change, but his legs wrap eagerly around Geralt’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back.

Geralt gives Jaskier’s neck a thorough investigation with his mouth, nipping and sucking as he plows steadily into him. Despite what Jaskier said earlier, Geralt can’t shake the sense that it is _he_ who has something to prove here. He desperately wants to show that he can be a considerate bed partner, that he can prioritize Jaskier’s pleasure instead of simply taking his own. He’ll make this good for Jaskier, he’ll make it so good that all will be forgiven.

Moaning softly at Geralt’s attentions, Jaskier tries to sneak a hand between their bodies to touch himself, but that is not part of the plan. Geralt captures the bard’s wrists and pins them over his head, holding him in place with one hand.

“Harder—Geralt, please, _harder_ , oh gods I’m so fucking close…” Jaskier cries.

Geralt grins. “I know.” He does not change his pace.

Again he listens to Jaskier’s pulse, flirting with the edge. When the bard gets too close he gives one more thrust and stops moving, buried deep and content to simply occupy his body until the heat recedes a little. Jaskier chokes on a sob and tries to squirm beneath him, despite being quite thoroughly pinned.

“I’m dying,” the bard whimpers. “You’re going to feel terrible when you realize you murdered me with your massive cock.”

A thread of panic lances through him, sharp as a Thunderbolt potion hitting his veins. But when he inhales, all he can smell on Jaskier is an overpowering scent of lust. Still, he has to know.

“Do you want to stop?” Geralt asks softly, brushing sweat-spiked hair off the bard’s forehead.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “My dear sweet witcher, it’s the _stopping_ that’s killing me.”

“Hrm.”

Geralt leans back and rises up on his knees, lifting Jaskier’s hips to accommodate the new position until only the bard’s shoulders are left resting on the mattress. He can easily maintain it by simply holding Jaskier’s legs tight against his chest, but those blue eyes widen in surprise as if this is a never-before-seen feat of strength.

Geralt smirks. “I recall someone requested being manhandled.”

“Um, yeah, no, it’s good!” Jaskier squeaks breathlessly. “ _Really good_.”

At last, Geralt rewards his bard with the _harder_ he requested. He pounds into him with reckless abandon, each thrust hammering against that sensitive bundle of nerves inside the other man until Jaskier is howling and cursing incoherently. Geralt holds him up with one arm, freeing his other hand to fist and pump Jaskier’s prick.

“ _Now_ , little bard,” Geralt growls, and the effect is instantaneous—Jaskier screams and practically convulses in his grip, painting himself with come. His arse clenches tight as a vise around Geralt’s cock, and he thrusts only once more before his own orgasm bursts like igni, and he fills Jaskier with his seed.

Easing out, he gently lowers Jaskier back down onto the mattress, the bard’s shaking legs splayed loose on either side of where he kneels. He probably shouldn’t, but Geralt can’t help himself—he leans over to lick the come off Jaskier’s stomach and chest, cleaning him diligently with his tongue. He laps gently at the bard’s spent cock, and then moves lower, driven by irrepressible animal instinct. Jaskier twitches, oversensitive, as Geralt eats him out, reveling in the sensation of tasting himself inside the bard’s body. _Mine mine mine_ —his chest swells with possessiveness and pride.

“That was,” Jaskier gasps, “intense.”

“Mm,” Geralt agrees, moving up on the bed to lie beside him, his own limbs feeling pleasantly heavy.

Jaskier flops over, crawling half on top of him and clinging like a limpet, head pillowed on Geralt’s chest. For a minute or two, they lie there just breathing together in blessed silence. But Jaskier wants to chatter through their afterglow—because of course he does—and Geralt tries not to think too hard about the warm amusement settling in his chest as the bard prattles about nothing in particular. His sweet, ridiculous bard.

“Do you remember that village with the ghoul problem, maybe six months after Posada—they threw a big celebration in the town square, and this little girl wove a flower crown and made you wear it?” Jaskier giggles.

Geralt _hmms_ an acknowledgment, only half-listening to the words as he drifts a little toward sleep.

“You looked _so grumpy_ but you didn’t take it off, so there you were with that ferocious glower, a bit of alghoul bone marrow still smeared on your armor, bedecked in daisies like a peasant bride on her wedding day.” He sighs happily. “That’s when I fell in love with you.”

Geralt tenses, suddenly very awake. The word _love_ lands in his stomach like a Black Blood potion—nauseating toxic sludge that only _barely_ doesn’t kill him. “Don’t,” he growls.

Dread races through his veins, cold and shocking as a bucket of ice water to the face. This was a terrible mistake. Love is beyond his ability. It isn’t as if he never tried—he tried so hard to feel something real with Yennefer, yet what’s between them was nothing but sex and control. Two ravenous creatures vying for who gets to devour the other one to the point of destruction. Geralt is incapable of giving, and he will take and take from Jaskier until there’s nothing left. It’s his nature. He cannot allow the bard to give him his heart, when Geralt doesn’t know how to care for precious things.

A heart is the target you aim for with a silver sword. That is all Geralt has ever known about hearts.

On top of him, Jaskier has gone very still. He picks his head up, props his chin on Geralt’s sternum to look at him with wide, serious eyes. “Don’t _what_ , Geralt? Don’t fall for you? It’s much too late, my friend—that ship sailed years ago.”

Geralt shifts the bard off his body, dumping Jaskier on the bed beside him so he can sit up. “I don’t love you.”

Jaskier sucks in a pained breath. “I thought you said you weren’t going to punch me in the gut anymore, Geralt,” he says weakly.

“I can’t return your feelings, Jaskier. I _physically can’t_. The mutagens burned all emotion out of me. Witchers don’t feel.”

“Yeah, okay… except no part of that statement is accurate. You _do_ feel, I can tell that you do.”

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut against the agony of yearning for Jaskier to be right, even though he knows deep down in his bones that the bard is wrong. The thought of how he will gradually, inevitably destroy Jaskier feels like hands squeezing his throat, choking off air. Jaskier is brightness and joy and humanity and passion, and Geralt is a finely-tooled instrument of death, made for danger and darkness. Where Geralt merely survives, Jaskier _lives_ , and if he crushes that he will never forgive himself.

“You need to leave,” he grinds out, with as much finality as he can muster. “This is a mistake, Jaskier. I’m broken in a way you cannot fix. Find someone else to love.”

 _Someone who deserves you_ , Geralt doesn’t say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this was going to be the last chapter, but then Geralt found something else to get all angsty about, so there will have to be at least one more. I dunno what to tell you—Geralt’s propensity for self-sabotage knows no bounds!
> 
> Thanks, as always, for all the lovely feedback and encouragement!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m absurdly excited that this fic has hit 1000 kudos—yay for the achievement of arbitrary numbers! Thanks, everyone!

Jaskier wishes he could kick himself right in his own stupid mouth. If he employed any kind of brain-to-mouth filter and just fucking thought about it for _two seconds_ first, he would have realized that deploying the _L_ -word on an unsuspecting Geralt is a bad plan. He has known the man for a decade, and processing emotions—his own or other people’s—is not exactly Geralt’s strong suit. From the little hints Geralt has dropped over the years, Jaskier suspects that baby-witcher training actively encourages them to grow up into emotional fuckwits as adults. Given all that _witchers don’t feel_ brainwashing bullshit, he’s zero-percent surprised that Geralt is triggering hard in response to a sudden romantic proclamation.

Which begs the question: what kind of fucking moron would drop a bomb like _I love you_ on a witcher? Apparently Jaskier. Jaskier is exactly that kind of stupid.

Well, it's out there in the open now, and he’ll just have to deal with it. Jaskier sits up on the bed, Geralt still facing away from him, but at least the witcher isn’t fleeing the room yet. “Forgive me criticizing whoever it was who taught you witchers can’t have feelings, but that is such a _complete and utter crock of shit_.”

“You know nothing of the Trials,” Geralt snaps.

“True, but I know _you_ , Geralt.” He scoots closer on the bed, leaning so he can at least see the witcher’s stony countenance in profile. “The day I met you, a band of elven refugees kicked our arses and threatened to kill us, and then you _gave them all your coin_. You ‘never get involved in the affairs of men’, except for all the times you _do_ —because you just can’t seem to walk away from a single person who needs help, even when all you get for your trouble is some ignorant peasants spitting on you. Gods, Geralt, you’re probably the most compassionate, empathetic person I’ve ever met. You show more humanity than most _actual humans_.”

“That’s not—you can’t—” He grinds his jaw, fighting for words, then repeats mulishly, “You should find someone else.”

Jaskier feels the words like a kick to the chest, hitting him right in that unhealed wound—his father’s voice echoes in his mind, _if you walk out that door, don’t bother coming back_. He tried so hard to avoid this, to hide the part of himself that Geralt finds intolerable. Even though it now seems there’s a part of Geralt that doesn’t _want_ to reject him.

Softly, Jaskier insists, “The way I feel for you isn’t a passing fancy, Geralt. You’re not replaceable, not to me anyway.”

Those otherworldly yellow eyes squeeze shut as if Jaskier’s words cause him physical pain. He breathes in, breathes out, steadying himself. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“That’s fantastic news, because there is nothing you can do to me that would hurt worse than leaving me.”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” the witcher says, a reproach full of fond irritation at his flippancy. Gods above, Jaskier _cannot_ lose this man, not when he’s so close to having him.

“When you think about sending me away, do you feel nothing?” Jaskier runs his hand lightly over the witcher’s shoulder and up his neck to cup his face. “I’ll find some poncy lordling to sponsor me at court, and I’ll ride his cock every night instead of yours, and you’re fine with that?”

Geralt’s cat-like pupils spasm wide in the way that sometimes means arousal, and sometimes means he wants to split someone in half with his sword. (A bit of both right now, Jaskier guesses.) “No,” he admits, slow and grudging. “Not fine.”

An idea is taking shape in Jaskier’s mind, the first nigglings of a stratagem, even. “If you’re trying to master a particularly difficult sword-fighting technique, what do you do?”

Geralt turns his head a little and eyes Jaskier suspiciously, as if he knows this non sequitur must be a trap, but he steps in it anyway. “I’d… practice…?”

“Right. So. Dealing with unfamiliar emotions is really difficult for you, but it’s a skill like any other,” Jaskier declares. “We’re going to practice.”

“You are ridiculous, bard,” he scoffs.

“Rude, but fair.”

Jaskier knows he can be impulsive and prone to not only thinking up but following through on harebrained schemes, which often leads to Geralt needing to rescue him from whatever hot water he has gleefully dived into. But the current plan forming in his mind isn’t one of _those_ plans, he’s pretty sure. _This_ idea is fucking brilliant. He reaches for the bottle of oil on the nightstand and pours a little into his palm.

Leaning close, Jaskier murmurs in the witcher’s ear. “When you picture me fucking myself on someone else’s cock, does it make your chest burn with jealousy?” He drops his oiled hand into Geralt’s lap and starts teasing him toward hardness. “Does it make you want to steal me away and fuck me until I’m screaming _your_ name—remind me who I belong to?”

Geralt growls irritably, but his dick is rapidly approaching full mast in Jaskier’s hand.

He sweeps the witcher’s hair back with his free hand and nips at his neck. “I’m not going to run off and shag a poncy lordling, Geralt, because you’re the one I want. Can you smell how hot for you I am?”

Geralt makes a strangled noise in his throat, almost a whine.

Jaskier straddles his lap, and the witcher shoots him a mutinous look, but instead of dumping the bard off, his hands move to rest on Jaskier’s thighs as if of their own accord. Jaskier stares into Geralt’s eyes as he sinks down onto his shaft, and he feels so full it’s hard to remember how to breathe, yet he still says, “I love you.”

Geralt schools his face into stony impassiveness. Gods, the witcher is stubborn—are they really going to have a fucking _battle of wills_ over whether Geralt allows himself to feel anything? Apparently yes, yes they are.

Jaskier raises himself up and lowers down again, riding Geralt soft and slow. “Can you feel how much I love you?”

Breath hitches in Geralt’s lungs, his nostrils flare a little, his jaw is tense as if he’s afraid of what might spill off his tongue.

“I’ll never stop.” Jaskier bounces on his cock with fervor, with fucking _zeal_. “You can send me away but you can’t make me stop loving you.”

Geralt’s eyelids flutter, and moisture spills from the corners, two slow tears tracking over his cheekbones. Jaskier brushes the tears away. When he leans in to press their lips together, Geralt _breaks_ and moans against his mouth, and suddenly the witcher is kissing him like he’s _starved_ for him, like he’s been trapped under water and Jaskier is oxygen.

“Oooh fuck yes,” Jaskier rambles between kisses, starting to lose track of his scheme because Geralt is inside him and holding him and kissing him and it’s all really rather _a lot_. “Touch me, touch me please, hnnh—”

Geralt obliges with a hand around Jaskier’s aching prick. With the heat and tension building fast in his core, it’s getting difficult to remember that he had a plan, an excellent plan, feelings and emotions and something something _oh gods_ Geralt’s thumb rubbing his slit, Geralt’s teeth pinching his lower lip, and he peaks in a burst of white-hot pleasure. “Geralt!”

But he can’t forget the plan. When he feels Geralt coming inside him, cock twitching and a rush of warmth, Jaskier leans close to his ear and whispers, “ _I love you_.”

Jaskier clings to Geralt, arms around his neck, as the rabbiting of his heart slows. The witcher, too, holds him close, arms strong as steel around his back, so Jaskier couldn’t escape even if he wanted to.

Softly, he says, “I know it’s hard right now, to accept it, but we’ll keep practicing until the words aren’t so scary anymore.”

Geralt harrumphs—grumpy, but also acquiescent.

“It will be a terribly tedious chore for me, of course.” Jaskier heaves an overdramatic sigh. “All the wild, passionate sex I’ll have to put up with. The things I do for you, my love.”

He pauses, hoping Geralt will chuckle, but the witcher remains quiet. He makes himself relax and be still, waiting more-or-less patiently for the other man to sort through his thoughts.

“Jaskier,” Geralt begins, as if he has more to say but can’t quite force the words to come out.

“Yes, dear heart?”

“I’ll probably fuck up again,” he mumbles, face pressed to the curve of Jaskier’s neck.

“I know,” Jaskier agrees, combing his fingers through silk-soft white hair. “But I’ll be there when you do, to knock some sense into you.”

Geralt pulls back so they can look each other in the eyes, and his face seems laid bare with naked hope. “Always?”

Jaskier places a kiss like a promise on his witcher’s lips. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s all, folks! Thanks so much for taking a ride on the Angst-and-Smut Express, it has been a genuine pleasure sharing this fic with you. All good things must come to a happy ending, but I have lots more ideas for how to torture these two lovable idiots, so stay tuned for a new project, now that this one is complete.


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